necessary condition
by Lihau
Summary: Illya is not suicidal. He can't be.


A/N: I was in a mood. Maybe don't read it if you're in a mood. Or even if you aren't.

* * *

They thought he was trying to kill himself.

Ridiculous, of course. Wrong, of course. But Illya himself had been under the same impression until recently, and so he couldn't really hold it against them for still believing it. What they failed to consider—what he'd failed to consider in all these years of self-destructive thoughts underlining everything he did—was the prerequisite for killing oneself.

You had to be alive.

Yes, technically, legally, he was considered a living entity. A human being. There were plenty of little pieces of paper saying he'd done this or that, been here and there. Beyond the documentation, though—when he went back to his quarters after a day at University—when he was alone, unseen, untouched, unheard—what was he? Who was he? Why was he?

Nothing. Nobody. No reason.

He studied. He slept. Ate. Slept. Read. Slept. Walked. Slept.

Slept, slept, slept, and what was death, but an unconscious, dreamless, endless sleep? What was his life but a semiconscious, dreamless, endless, semi-waking state?

No, he wasn't trying to kill himself.

Yes, he should be trying to kill himself. But he had to meet the necessary condition first.

There. Now there was someone who wanted to live, or at least who was going to be forced to do so. Someone being rushed past the outside of his little room, on a gurney, surrounded by medical professionals, on their way to rescuing the living being who, in all likelihood, wanted to keep on living.

He got up, got halfway to the door. Decided he was probably not privileged to make the executive decision of whether that door was to be open or closed. Opted instead to draw the curtain between the door and the hospital bed.

No sooner was he back on the mattress than the curtain was drawn open again. A uniformed nurse informing him that a raving lunatic like him didn't get privacy until the rest of the world could be reasonably certain he wouldn't make a noose of the bedsheets and off himself.

She didn't use those words, of course, but the sentiment was roughly the same, Illya thought. She smiled sweetly, asked if he wanted anything to eat or drink, and left when he gave a mute shake of the head and rested back against the pillows again, like a good little nutcase.

Then there was another nurse, this one in plainclothes. Was that the right term, or was it only for police?

In any case, there was another nurse, sitting by the door in her little business-suit-dress, flipping through a little magazine and occasionally jotting down something in her little notebook. He wondered if she was detailing all of his suspicious blinks and twitches and eventually she took notice and said, "I'm just sitting in with you for a while, Illya. I'm making very basic observations, like whether you're awake or asleep."

He nodded once. She didn't note this down, so he believed her.

"Would you like to get some sleep? I can turn off the light, if you like."

He didn't really see the point in that, as the door was open and the emergency department lights would illuminate whatever the in-room lights did not, so he shrugged and went back to staring at the ceiling.

At least the ceiling wasn't observing him. Not as far as he knew, and he wasn't so far gone, so far paranoid that he had any significant suspicions about the thing.

Eventually, the business-suit nurse got up and informed him that someone else would be in with him shortly and left.

He wondered if he could do the same. Leave, that is. He was still in his normal clothes—a little rumpled, true, a little stained in a couple of places, true, but that was about it—and could probably behave like a sane person long enough to get out of the building.

Long enough to do something to make him feel alive.

Then maybe he could finally go through with it. Meet the prerequisite. Do what needed to be done.

Too late. Another plainclothes nurse came in, this one sitting in the chair closer to the bed than the door. This one a man with no notebook and a big smile.

"Illya," the nurse greeted, and Illya looked back to the ceiling. They could make him stay here as long as they wanted, but that didn't mean he had to talk to them.

"Why are you suicidal, Illya?" the nurse asked, and Illya looked back to him from the sheer shock of the question, but the brown-haired man with his warm brown eyes was still smiling at him and that seemed a bit inappropriate, but who was keeping score?

"I'm not," Illya supplied, since maybe that would make this strange nurse stop being so… strange.

"Why not?" At Illya's arched brow, he amended, "What I mean to say is, what's motivating you to stay alive?"

"Force of habit." And why was he still talking to this man?

"That's not much of a reason. Don't you like your work?"

"I'm a student." Seriously. Why.

"I know. Maybe I should say, don't you like your studies, then?"

He shrugged.

"You're almost to a doctorate in quantum mechanics, and all you can say about it is—?" He mimicked Illya's shrug.

"How do you know that?" Illya challenged, since nobody here in the hospital should have known anything more about his personal life than the fact that he was a student who had somehow convinced people that he was a danger to himself.

"I know a lot about you, Illya."

"Then you know I am not trying to kill myself. So you can recommend to your supervisors that I should be allowed to leave."

The nurse chuckled. "I don't think I'm who you think I am." He reached into his breast pocket, produced a business card, and held it out between his index and middle fingers.

Illya took it since he really didn't have anything better to do at the moment.

"If you're looking for a reason to live, Illya, we'd love to help you find it."

Illya looked at the card: _Napoleon Solo. U.N.C.L.E._

He looked up, and the man was already out the door.


End file.
